


I Know It's Dire My Time Today

by whopackedthese



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Drug Use, Family Secrets, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Honesty, Medical Emergency, Montague Street, Overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7958698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopackedthese/pseuds/whopackedthese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>He, Greg and Sherlock were finally locked inside the squalor of Sherlock's own bedroom, and the caregiving could commence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know It's Dire My Time Today

**Author's Note:**

> The title has been taken from the song "Car Radio" by Twenty One Pilots.

Greg knew he would not be walking into the most welcoming of scenes when he stopped his car on the wet and windy street and he was poised for it. It was not the first time Sherlock had contacted him and he knew that he would be naive to assume that it would be the last. **Help me** the text had said, quite simply. But Greg had known, just as he always did. Glancing up at the window of the house, able to see shadows moving in the light that was cast against the thin drapes inside, he knew that Sherlock was not alone and he knew that that was not a good sign. He pulled the collar up on his coat and dug his hands into its deep pockets and was about to take a step toward the house when a car pulled up behind his. From the look of the car, Greg knew exactly who it was. He exhaled and stood, waiting, as the passenger's door opened and Mycroft stepped out. Mycroft immediately flicked up his umbrella, clutching the handle in his gloved right hand, and took the five, measured steps it took to reached Greg. 'Did he text you, too?' Greg asked. 

Mycroft's face was firm and harsh, his eyes narrowed in obvious anger but taken by something else, too, something that Greg assumed was fraternal concern. 'No - but when Sherlock sends messages to you, they're not missed.'

Greg wasn't sure what he thought of that - was he under Mycroft's surveillance too? 'Right,' he said, drawing in his lips. 'Are we doing this, then?' 

Mycroft nodded his head in a small, controlled movement. 'Lead on, Scotland Yard,' he said, his voice so refined it almost sounded sarcastic. 

It took little persuasion on Greg's part to coax the battered front door into opening without a key, and he pushed his way into the hallway with little in the way of decorum. Mycroft folded and shook his umbrella, and held it tightly in his hand as he followed Greg inside. Their shoes clipped against the tiles that lined the floor before them and though the hall was in darkness itself, the light that hung from the stained ceiling had long been without a working bulb, a small amount of light that bled down the stairs from the landing did enough to guide them safely up the stairs with no fear of their shoes slipping on the threadbare carpet that was barely clinging to life on the splintering steps. 

Greg held the bannister as he climbed the staircase, his eyes cast upward in search of Sherlock and on guard for anyone who might emerge. When they reached the landing, Greg peered around him in anticipation of bodies with ataxia moving backwards and forward from the bathroom, where the light was coming from, or two spare bedrooms within the converted house. Sherlock's drug buddies were numerous and concerning, but not concerning enough for Greg to want to help them tonight. He turned down the narrow hallway with Mycroft right at his back and straight toward the room at the front, knowing it to be the place Sherlock tucked himself away. Both men looked down as they walked, careful to be mindful of discarded needles, and Greg reached out his right hand with his fingers splayed to lay against the panelling of the door before him. More light bled out as Greg pushed the door open and the real dangers around their feet were exposed. Mycroft's mind worked well to prevent him from focusing on it as Greg pushed further and took a step into the room. 

Greg craned his head around the door as his body followed him inside and although he saw first Sherlock was inside the room, curled on the bed in a tight ball, his eyes were drawn to a tall, heavy-set man by the window who was stuffing items from on the top of a low dressing table into an old, stained backpack. 

Mycroft refused to look at his brother and instead set his attention on the unknown man. 'I don't know what you're doing, who you are, or what you're plans are, but I'm giving you exactly five seconds to leave this house. They start now.' The man looked up at them and his face made Greg feel sick; his eyes were hollow and his cheeks were drawn in. scabbed and scarred. If heroin abuse had a face for advertisement, Greg knew that this was it. But the man scarpered, taking a bundled roll of twenty-pound notes from the unmade bed as he moved. Mycroft drew his body in as the man passed him, and watched him move down the stairs before he pushed the bedroom door closed tightly in the frame. He, Greg and Sherlock were finally locked inside the squalor of Sherlock's own bedroom, and the caregiving could commence.

'It's alright,' Greg spoke carefully. 'It's alright now, Sherlock. We'll take you home.' He stood at the right side of the bed and looked down on Sherlock's body, twitching beneath his clothes, eyes rolling in lieu of blinks. He peered at Mycroft, standing at the head of the bed with his eyes scanning up and down Sherlock's body. Greg saw the change in his face - the sternness was gone and a pale fear had taken its place. Greg lowered his hand slowly and placed his flattened palm against Sherlock's thin bicep. 'Shh,' he soothed as Sherlock's face contorted, 'Shh. It's alright.' 

He moved his hand down and clutched Sherlock's elbow in a light grip. He used his left hand to stabilise Sherlock's arm and pull it straight using his palm. He'd injected, of course. Greg had hoped he'd make it beforehand, that the curled up Sherlock he was greeted with would be one who had simply cried himself into submission. He lay Sherlock's arm back down and watched the lad draw it into himself, and he felt the strength leave his body. 

'Oh, Sherlock,' Mycroft whispered. 

'I'll call paramedics,' Greg said quietly, shaking his head. 'Unless you would rather I took him into the station, let him spend the night in the drunk tank?' 

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, 'I would prefer neither; not only do I believe he is no fit state to stand, I fear he may require medical attention.' He admitted, 'Please, do call paramedics.' 

'Did he mention a trigger?' Greg asked, drawing his phone from his coat pocket. 

Mycroft looked up, his eyes having wandered back to roaming over his brother's form, and shook his head rather sadly. 'No, but I fear I may be to blame for this particular _bender_.'

Greg paused his hands and shook his head, drawing his lips down in confusion. 'Why?'

'Family is fickle, Inspector Lestrade, and it also comes with privacies you do not have to disclose to others. Grateful as I am for your presence when Sherlock requires it, I do not feel I need to inform you of everything that occurs in his life.' Mycroft's words had bite. 

Greg raised his brows and tapped out the numbers on his phone, drawing it up to his ear. 'Fine,' he nodded. 'Hello, yeah, ambulance, please. Hi - yes, he is. Yes, I am. He's taken heroin, suspected overdose. Yes, very... It's Detective Inspector Lestrade. Yes. No, no reactions at all. Barely... OK. Sherlock Holmes. He's twenty-seven. No known medical conditions. Yeah - it's happened twice since I've known him, in the last two years.' Greg looked up at Mycroft, '...I'm not sure. I don't know. Yes, of course, we'll meet them. Yeah, it's 38 Montague Street... yeah, exactly. Thank you.' He lowered the phone and nodded at Mycroft, 'They're blue-lighting him, they'll be here quickly.'

'Is addiction not a medical condition?' Mycroft asked suddenly, and Greg honestly didn't know how to respond for a moment. And then, he did. 

'Not in my book,' he said coldly. 'Weakness, that's all. And I do love this lad, you know that, but there's got to be a point where I stop cleaning up his messes and start actually helping him. Facilitating it like this, doing what we're doing now, that's just enabling him. He knows he can get in touch and we'll be here to pick it all up and put it all back together. It's wearing thin, the novelty is wearing off. I'll help him _forever_ , but I won't continue to enable him.' He pushed his phone into his pocket and walked toward the door. 'I'll see the paramedics in, and then I'll go. Let me know how he is, yeah?' Mycroft watched him walk through the door as he pulled it half open and found himself unable to decide whether he admired his candidness or envied it. He could never wash his hands of Sherlock Holmes; brothers just did not have the ability to do that as others did.


End file.
